The Crooked Man

Homecoming

It seems fitting that the wall is black, like my soul. That it meanders aimlessly across the meadow, having no apparent beginning and no discernible end. That it cowers timidly within a littered, concrete trench, hidden and silent. That the thousands of names chiseled into the glossy surface appear in random disorder, like the nearly-forgotten lives those names represent.

Three mute and weary statues stand vigil at this place: an unholy trinity cast in bronze; comrades-in-arms -- one Black, one White, one Hispanic. Lifeless eyes gaze across an abyss of uncertainty, fixed upon distant, unknown, and separate horizons. A light dusting of patina streaks each face forming frozen, discolored tears of sorrow, despair, and desolation. This, too, seems fitting...as it should be.

It's not so fitting that those who have come here to mourn are forced to mingle with the gapers and the gawkers. That voices lifted in murmured supplication must compete with the shrill cries of hucksters who hawk their wares on the very steps of this holy site. They sell flags and flowers, medals and mementos, sodas and souvenirs, cotton-candy and corn-dogs, and much, much more. But this is not the final violation, merely the most recent desecration of the dead; of carcasses whose bones have long-since been picked clean. Nothing ever changes. There is no honor. No respect. Everything and everyone is for sale. I long for Christ to appear and chase the moneychangers from this temple of prayer, but He is not here. I wonder if He ever was.

* * *

In another place a gentle rain lightly falls from the sky, misting the air. Beneath a tent a small group of sad and somber people form a rough semi-circle around a polished, metal coffin. Two solemn soldiers in full-dress uniform grimly fold the red, white and blue symbol of a nation into a neat, tight triangle before presenting it to a middle-aged woman standing at the center of the gathering. The sound of rifle-fire -- a twenty-one gun salute -- shatters the silence. Slowly, the casket is lowered into the ground. A preacher prays. A widow weeps. A tall young man (who never knew his father) moves to comfort his mother. And from somewhere in the distance a bugler begins to play 'Taps'.

* * *

Unmolested, like smoke, I weave my way through the shuffling assembly clustered along the cold, granite barrier. With chalk and charcoal people rub names onto flimsy parchment. They offer flowers, or light candles. Many speak aloud to unseen, absent companions. Some loudly curse. Many more silently pray. A few share a final bottle, honoring promises and commitments made long ago and far away. The haunted, red-rimmed eyes of these people -- the unlisted casualties and crippled survivors -- stare right through me, their vision clouded by guilt and pain...but guilt and pain that are slowly receding. I sense I have entered into a circle of healing, an arena of restoration and revival for a people and a nation. And for me, as well. Yes...even for me. Perhaps it's not too late for peace. Is it ever too late for peace?

Time is short. I mustn't tarry. I, too, have an appointment to keep. In haste, I seek what I came here to find. Yes! There it is, low on the wall! The light is fading. It's time for me to go. I must leave this place. With trembling fingers, I quickly trace the letters, spelling out the name carved into the stone. Oh, God! It's my name! Mine! Darkness envelops my body. From somewhere in the distance a bugler plays 'Taps'.

* * *

'It's over, Mom,' the young man says gently to his mother. 'He's finally home.'

'Come on, I'll help you to the car.'

'I think I'll stay with him a little while longer,' she says, softly.

'I think he'd like that.'